


of all my many lives

by rrosebudd



Category: Town of Salem (Video Game)
Genre: Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, so i wrote about it, there's a bunch of other characters but i can't be bothered to tag them all, this helpless survivor just needs a friend, this is based off a real game i was in and i thought it was really fucked up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-22 03:36:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13158438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rrosebudd/pseuds/rrosebudd
Summary: A lonely survivor just needs a way to make it through each day. A Retributionist strikes a deal, and the two work together to ensure the survival of the other against all the odds of the cruel town around them.





	of all my many lives

The sun of the first day set after a brief greeting between the members of the town, and the first moon rose in the sky, not quite full. The Survivor trekked into his home, behind the door that could not be locked, and prepared for the worst. 

He stared at the four bulletproof vests that hung on the wall, tempted to grab one and wrap it around himself, ensuring that he would make it through the night. But he knew he couldn’t, not the first night. He only had four, and he had to use them sparingly. He would have to survive on his own. 

The lonely Survivor instead sat curled on his bed, awaiting the sleepless night full of shrieks and gunshots he knew he had ahead of him. He prayed and hoped he could make it through, thinking the same wish every night. 

After what seemed like hours of clutching his knees to his chest and hearing the faint screams and cries outside in the darkness of the town, the Survivor shut his eyes, falling into a few moments’ rest.

The sun rose at an agonizingly slow pace, and its rays calmed the evil in the streets as criminals and killers returned to their homes. The Survivor’s shaking dulled and faded to a stop at long last, and he stood, albeit weakly. Soon the townspeople would be gathering in the center near the looming gallows. 

At every glimpse of the noose, he could imagine the rope wrapped around his neck like a pearl necklace, his feet dangling in the air, only a few inches from the hope that was the earth below him. The eye of the noose stared at him, night and day, and made his blood run cold. The murmuring began outside on the stones of the plaza that were caked in blood once more. 

The bodies of the unfortunate were laid out in the center of town for all to see. As the Survivor began to make his way towards the other town members, he heard the cries of the identifications. 

“The Medium!”

“The Jester’s gone. At least we won't have to deal with him, right?”

The two bodies lay sprawled across the stone, the Medium’s pale skin shining against the red that coated her dress, the Jester’s face locked in a faint grin. One was taken out by the Mafia, the other, the Serial Killer. It wasn't long until the two were forgotten, and the day continued on with its usual accusations and cries for help.

“I was doused, I was doused last night!” 

“The serial killer is on the loose, didn't you see?” 

“If there's a werewolf tonight, I swear…” 

The worries of the townspeople bore into the Survivor, his face turning a ghost-like shade. So much could happen, so much could kill him. He ignored the constant stares of the town member next to him, wanting so badly to open his mouth and make an accusation before he, himself, would end up joining the Medium and the Jester.

The day was dragging on. Someone had claimed investigator - why so early, he didn't know - and pointed at the town member who stood next to the Survivor, the man who had not been able to keep his eyes off the Survivor since the meeting had begun.

The investigator declared that he must be either a Sheriff, a Retributionist, or an Executioner. None of these posed any sort of immediate threat, so the subject was dropped quickly. The man in question had barely spoken a word. 

The full moon of the second night made its appearance, dragging along with it an inky black sky. The Survivor headed home, grateful for making it through the day, with another night to live through. 

______________________________________

He sat with his back against the front door, knees curled up into his chest, staring at the four vests he had left. If only he could use one tonight, he could sleep at least more soundly than usual, but if he happened to make it through several more days, a week, even, he would have nothing left. He could just as easily die tonight, however. Oh god, he did not want to die tonight. 

A sharp knock at the door shattered the loner’s thoughts and he nearly screamed at the sound, instinctively lunging for the bulletproof vests on the wall. His hands were shaking far too much to even untangle one from its hook, let alone put it on himself. 

As he frantically fumbled with the straps, the knock came again. But this time it was accompanied by a voice.   
“I know you’re in there, I’m not going to hurt you, I swear.” A man spoke from outside in a soft tone. “I know you only want to live.”

The Survivor paused, staring at the door with wide eyes and shuddering breaths. He walked cautiously towards it, footsteps creaking and echoing in the room. He wrapped his shaking fingers around the doorknob, and with one last exhale to compose himself, he slowly pulled open the door. 

Standing outside was a man not much older than himself, wearing a long coat with his hands in the pockets. His hair was a dark brown and rather disheveled. Granted, the Survivor’s lighter hair must have not looked much better from his sleepless nights and days filled with worry. “Who… Who are you?” 

The Survivor recognized the man as the town member who had been standing next to him during the day, and had been suspected of being a Sheriff, an Executioner, or…

“I’m the Retributionist. May I come in?” The Retributionist barely waited for an answer before strolling past the Survivor and into the cluttered home. He promptly took a seat on the couch, removing his coat and tossing it to the side. 

The Survivor gazed inquiringly at his unexpected guest. “What business do you have here? I’m not dead, therefore I can’t be resurrected.” 

The Retributionist nodded at the obvious statement. “I am aware.” He sighed, running a hand through his already messy hair. “I am only here to make a deal with you, that is all.”

Silence ensued for a brief moment while the Survivor continued to look at him strangely. “And what… what is it?”

“Alright, listen,” The Ret began, leaning back into the couch with a sigh. “I know you’re a survivor, your demeanor is a dead giveaway. You've gotta keep your fear under control.” He shook his head in disappointment. “Anyway. That means you could side with anyone here, and as long as you live, you win, right?” 

The survivor responded only with a meek nod.

“Which means you could just as well join the mafia, and leave the town for dead, correct?”

He opened his mouth to defend himself, but was cut off. 

“But, if you die, you lose, no take backs, no returns, you’re done.” The Ret continued, sending a chill down the Survivor’s spine at the thought of it.

“So, I propose a plan,” he leaned forward as if telling a secret, “I am the one who revives those who are dead. And you just need to live. How about you side with the town, get rid of the mafia and serial killers and arsonists and whoever the hell wants us to die, and in return, I will bring you back to life if you die.”

More silence. The survivor glanced at his feet, shifting his weight anxiously. “You mean… You’ll help me win if I side with the town? You’ll protect me?”

The Retributionist let out a small scoff. “I wouldn’t say I’d be… ‘protecting you’,” he made finger quotes in the air, “but I could pull a few strings and make sure you stay with us living.” 

“Would that even work? Could I still win, even if I die? Are you even allowed to bring back Survivors? What if there’s someone who needs it more than me? What will you do then? How do yo-?”

“Look,” The Retributionist interrupted the worried remarks. “I said I’ll see what I can do. There’s no guarantee. I just need your help. And you need mine. So, what do you say?” He stretched out his hand towards the Survivor. “Do we have a deal?”

“I…” The Survivor stared blankly at the hand in front of him. He took a deep breath and grabbed onto it with his own, and he shook. “Yes.”

“Fantastic,” The man stood from the couch and pulled his trench coat back on. “I will see you tomorrow,” he nodded at the Survivor with a satisfied smile and left, leaving him alone with his thoughts once more.

___________________________________________

 

The sun came up and brought with it new bodies found in the town circle. A Mafioso had been shot by a lucky Veteran, and the town was grateful for one less mafia man to deal with. 

When the accusations started, the survivor did not fare well. He tried to tune out the blaming and the cries, but they still broke through. One woman was accused of being the Arsonist by a town member who had refused to say their role, and mob mentality began to set in. She was dragged to the stand and had the noose tossed around her neck. Her screams and pleas were soon muffled by the silence of death that overcame her. She had only been the Doctor. 

It wasn't until the town began to shuffle away that the Survivor realized the presence of tears that clung to his cheeks. How easily people were killed, he thought, even by the innocent. 

His trembling only ceased when he felt a strong hand on his shoulder as he turned to go home. He glanced behind him to see the Retributionist give him a small nod with eyes that showed the slightest bit of concern.  
The Survivor responded by flashing a weak smile before shrugging him off and leaving the plaza. He slept with his bulletproof vest on that night. 

 

______________________________________________

 

He awoke sharply to the sound of a gunshot ringing through the air, slicing through glass. Before he could think, he let out a strangled yell and dove for the floor, heart pounding against his ribcage.   
“Please! Please, don’t do this!” A cry sounded from outside.

The realization dawned on him with relief, so much so that he felt faint, that it was not his house that was under attack. The screams and sobs of a woman sounded all too close, seemingly right next door, but they stopped soon after a second gunshot blasted through the night. 

The Survivor cried out in shock again, the sound triggering a fit of tremors. He felt the hot tears run down his face, and he sat alone in the darkness, listening intently to the footsteps until they faded away into nothing. Even then, he waited. He listened. All that remained was the pattering of rain on the stone in the town center, as it tried to wash away the sinful blood that had been spilt.  
The Survivor clutched his vest close to his body, but he felt, for some reason, that would it not be enough. He stood after what seemed like hours, legs shaking so badly they could barely support him, and made his way to the front door. He peered outside, but after seeing nothing, no Serial Killers, no Vigilantes, no Mafia, he threw the door open and ran out into the rain, into the night.

____________________________________

 

The Retributionist sat alone at his dining table with a cup of tea and a book, leaning back leisurely. Every sound from outside made him grit his teeth. Every person dead only meant another town member that he would regret not resurrecting. 

It was obvious there was no way to resurrect a Survivor, the game just didn't work that way. But it was also obvious that the one in question did not know of this. The Ret just needed all the help he could get in favor of his townspeople. 

And yet, there was something that made him want to uphold his side of the bargain, and protect the terrified loner. He had made a deal, and as tempting as it was to bring back the Doctor, or the Medium, he would stick to his word. 

As the night dragged on, distant gunshots became like any other noise in the night, no less surprising than crickets chirping. He had been playing this game for far too long, nothing could surprise him now. Nothing could surprise him, he thought, until his door flew open and in stumbled the Survivor, a bulletproof vest wrapped tightly around his chest, soaked from the rain. 

The Retributionist stood up from his chair, the wood scraping across the floor. “What the hell are you doing here?” He found himself nearly shouting, astounded this man could risk his life at random at stakes so high. 

“The Mafia’s out there, along with a Serial Killer! Not to mention it’s freezing rain outside!” He grabbed a blanket off of the couch and chucked it at the shivering Survivor, who was barely able to catch it with his shaking hands. “And you’re wearing a vest. On the third night. Great.” He rolled his eyes in exasperation.   
“Soon you’ll have nothing left, nothing to protect you, did you even think about that?!”

The Survivor stared back at the Retributionist, his breaths heaving. “I…” His words got caught in his throat, and he could not go on.

The Ret watched in shock as the face of the man across from him crumpled and he sank to the floor in a mess of loud, shuddering sobs. Tears spilled from his eyes and he held his head in his hands, grabbing hysterical fistfuls of his sopping wet hair. 

The Retributionist looked down at the mess of a man on the floor of his house and knelt cautiously beside him. He placed his hand as reassuring as he could on the Survivor’s back, and as soon as he did, the Survivor pulled the Retributionist closer to him, grasping for any type of protection he could get. He gripped onto the Ret’s arms and continued to cry heavily. 

“O-Okay… It’s okay…” The Retributionist held onto the Survivor as he cried into his shirt. The two sat on the floor; the only sounds that remained were the heaving sobs of the Survivor and the rain outside. The gunshots and screams had decided to cease for the night. 

Several minutes passed until the tears subsided almost fully, and the Survivor was able to find his voice. “I… I heard it… The gunshots, r-right outside my house… I don’t know who it was, but she… she was so scared, I… I couldn't stay there, and I didn't know who else to come to, and I…” Another set of tears dripped from his eyes, and they swallowed the rest of his sentence, threatening another spell of despair.

“Whoa, whoa,” the Retributionist stopped him, catching him before he fell into another pit of terror. “It’s alright, that’s what happens every night, all over town, it’s-”

“I know!” He nearly yelled, “I know it’s every night, all the time, but… I-I can’t…” The Survivor tried to take a deep breath, but it merely sounded like a strangled cry. “That can’t… I don’t want that to be me.” 

The Retributionist didn’t speak, he only looked at the Survivor he held, who was staring wildly at the ground, his eyes scrambling and searching for answers that he didn’t have.

“I don’t want to die,” his next words were a whisper, the truth of every Survivor that ever became part of the town. 

“I know,” The Ret responded simply as the Survivor’s grip on his arms loosened, and he slumped over in exhaustion. He took the Survivor’s arms in turn and helped him to stand, guiding him over to the couch and sitting him down. “You won’t. I promise you.”

The Survivor let out a small, soft laugh as his eyes fluttered shut, unable to keep them open much longer, the tears turning sticky on his face. “You said you wouldn’t protect me.” He chuckled, spreading out onto the couch. 

The Ret tossed the blanket over him as he sat on the end of the sofa, leaning back as well. He smiled slightly in return, watching over the Survivor as he began to drift asleep. 

“I’ll see what I can do.”

______________________________________

 

“I saw that one visit him last night!” The snarky Lookout pointed an accusing finger first at the Survivor, and then immediately towards the Retributionist. The town’s eyes seemed to follow one of the two men who were now at the center of everyone’s attention. The burnt, crisp corpse of the Serial Killer and the bodies of the Veteran and Consort were no longer of interest.

Murmurs spread throughout the townspeople like a wildfire, pointing at either man, their voices growing in volume, their muddled questions becoming angry.

The Survivor felt his body grow cold, all the color draining from his face. This is it, he thought. He hoped he wouldn’t have died by the town’s wishes, and yet, here he was, about to be hanged. There goes his prize, there goes his life, there goes - 

“Wait!” The Retributionist cried out. The town paused and all turned their heads towards the man who had been all so quiet the past few days with suddenly something to say. “I’m fine! See? I’m okay, he didn’t do anything!” He motioned largely to his entire body. 

“Why was he there, then, huh?” A loud-spoken, very brash Sheriff gave the Survivor a push from behind. With a surprised shout, the Survivor was thrown forward, further towards the center, towards the noose…

“Don’t you touch him!” The Retributionist snarled, causing the plaza to fall into a hush. “He’s innocent!”

The Sheriff eyed the Ret cautiously, who now stood at an aggravated stance, breathing heavily. “Well,” The Sheriff turned to talk to the rest of the town more than the Retributionist, “You aren’t part of the Mafia. So, I…I’ll take your word for it.” 

The Ret backed down, nodding. He exhaled before responding. “Thank you.” He was surprised to find the matter was quickly dropped, and no more questioning ensued. He was not surprised, however, to find an extremely grateful Survivor on his couch when he got home. 

Nor was he surprised when the two woke up in his bed together the next morning. 

______________________________________

 

The next morning consisted of the dead bodies of the Arsonist, the Bodyguard and the Lookout. A duel had occurred between the Arso and the Bodyguard, who had only wanted to protect the Sheriff, and now both lay dead in the streets. The Mafia was still active, having taken out the Lookout during the night to keep suspicion from arising. Even though hangings were at a minimum, the town was falling fast, and both the Survivor and the Retributionist knew it. 

The day was quiet. Even the Sheriff did not have much to report, and it was obvious it was getting to him. Gray bags encircled his eyes from nights where he tried to keep his town safe by identifying those who were doing the opposite. It was hours of idle, individual conversations and whispers before someone spoke up. The Sheriff was desperate. 

“I don’t know how many of you there are…” He spoke in a low, hoarse voice, glaring at each remaining town member individually, slurring his words ever so slightly, the scent of alcohol rolling off his tongue, “...but I’ll… I’ll find you.” 

The Survivor and Retributionist stood next to one another, away from the others. The thin red-haired woman on the other side of the circle had said she was an Investigator, right from the beginning, and so far, had evidence that supported her claim. The tall, well-built man who stood not far from her had yet to claim a role. It would not be long before everyone had to claim something, for it was only the fourth day, and two-thirds of the town had been wiped out. 

“Alright, listen up!” The Sheriff looked around the circle. “You all know who I am, so I think it’s time to tell me who you are!” He folded his arms across his chest and glanced around again. “Starting with… you,” he pointed a finger at the woman.

“I have already told you,” she spoke patiently, “I am the Investigator.” 

“Right, right,” the Sheriff nodded, scratching his head. “Can you prove it?”

She sighed and looked around before locking eyes with the Survivor. “I can tell you that that man is either a Survivor, a Witch, or a Werewolf.”

Four pairs of eyes turned to the Survivor expectantly. “Well?” The Sheriff   
spoke up. “Which is it, kid?” 

“S-Survivor,” he managed the words, wanting to reach for the Retributionist for help. “I’m a Survivor.”  
“You are, huh? Lucky you, then. You’ve made it this far. But you could be-”

“There hasn't been any cases of manipulation, nor have there been any Werewolf attacks,” the Retributionist spoke quickly, interrupting the oncoming accusation. 

The Sheriff huffed, considering this. “It seems you’re in the clear, kid,” he nodded at the Survivor and turned to the Retributionist. “And you? You’ve claimed nothing, what’s your secret?” He chuckled and awaited an answer.   
The Retributionist looked at the Sheriff, not nearly as amused. “I’m the Retributionist.” 

“Retributionist?” The Sheriff narrowed his eyes, strolling closer to the man significantly taller than he. “Is that so?” He let out a scoff. “Well, ‘Retributionist’, why don’t you tell me why you haven’t, well, I don’t know, resurrected any of your fellow town members?! Why you’ve just left them for dead?!” On his last word, he shoved the Ret in the chest, sending him stumbling backwards.

In one quick movement, the Retributionist snatched the Sheriff by his shirt collar and lifted him off his feet. He pulled his fist back, ready to throw the first punch.

“Stop it!” The Survivor called out, causing the Retributionist to pause. He glared at the suddenly shocked Sheriff in the face, then looked at his fist that was so prepared to strike him across the face, and he stopped. 

He exhaled and pushed the Sheriff away from him. “You’re not worth it.” He growled before turning away.

The Sheriff staggered away and remained silent for a moment. He cleared his throat before turning to the last unidentified town member. “I never got your role, sir.”

He ran a hand over his black goatee before responding, “I’m a Vampire Hunter.”

The Sheriff stared for a moment at the man, his eyebrows fixed in a confused expression. “A… A Vampire Hunter?” 

“That’s right.” The man nodded confidently.

“How is that… That’s not…” The Sheriff pulled a notepad out of his pocket and flipped through the pages. “There were no Vampires, you can’t be… wait a second…”

Just as he was about to continue with the interrogation, night fell, and the time for accusations was over. The Sheriff grumbled something to himself and trudged away from the unknown town member. 

The Survivor hurriedly headed back to his home, throwing on a bulletproof vest, and grabbing a second off the wall. The second he heard all the doors around the town circle slam shut, he yanked his own open, and dashed to the house he knew too well. 

The Retributionist had gratefully accepted the vest, and the two camped out in the dining room with cups of tea, telling stories of their past, and how they could come to such a fate as being stuck in the game. They breathed easier when they heard the gunshot at another house, but mourned, for they knew the Mafia would not have let the Sheriff go tonight. 

Peace fell over the town for the night as the Mafia took their victim and left the town alone. It was not long before they felt safe enough to take off their bulletproof vests, along with the rest of their clothes, and their lips found one another.

______________________________________

 

The Survivor and the Retributionist did not feel any shock when the Sheriff’s blood was added to the mess in the morning. 

“Fucker deserved it,” the tall man let out a laugh as he looked down at the Sheriff, eliciting a giggle from the woman who wrapped her arm through his. 

The Retributionist walked over to the Sheriff’s body, emotionless. He cast an eye over the Sheriff for a brief moment before eyeing the ones in front of him. “You two, huh?” 

“Took you lot long enough, didn’t it?” The woman chuckled holding her fellow Mafia member close. “And this asshole never knew a thing,” she gestured to the dead man below them. 

The Survivor joined the Retributionist, looking towards the woman. “If you’re Mafia, how did you know I was a Survivor, Witch, or Werewolf? You sounded an awful lot like an Investigator.”

She let out a lilting laugh again. “Ever hear of a Consigliere?” The Consigliere grinned. “I just know. You’re a Survivor. And you’re a Retributionist,” she gestured towards him. “Found out about you Night One, honey.”

The Ret nodded, although solemnly. “Yes,” he let out a sigh, “which means I’m the last town member, and…”

“That means you’re the one who has to die,” the last man, the Godfather, smiled, stating only the truth that settled over the group. “Sorry, bud. That’s the way it is. You’re gonna be the one hanging from that rope, I’m afraid.” 

The Survivor’s vision swam in front of him, staring at the bloody cobbled street beneath him. He instinctively reached out and grabbed the Retributionist’s arm. “No,” was all he could force out of his mouth, unable to look the Godfather in the eye.

A lull fell over the group. The woman’s laugh was sarcastic this time. “I’m sorry, ‘no’?” She cackled. 

“I-I won’t let you,” the Survivor breaths were frantic. “You can’t.”

“Look, kid,” the Godfather rolled his eyes, tapping his foot impatiently, “we’re letting you off the hook. You can win with us, it’s easy. Your friend here will hang, and you can join us and win, it’s a good deal. You just need to vote with us to get him up there,” he pointed to the stage that held the hanging rope that could take away the last member of the town.

“Stop…” The Survivor shook his head rapidly, holding onto the Retributionist tightly. 

The Godfather let out a frustrated sigh, “Come on, you get to live! All Survivor’s want to do is live, right?”  
“Not if I can’t live without him!” The Survivor yelled, silencing the Godfather.

The Retributionist’s face turned from stone to a soft expression. The Survivor let go of his Retributionist’s arm, and instead grabbed his hand, and the Ret, in return, held it tightly as well. 

“Fine.” The Godfather snarled. “That’s how you want to play it? Either you help us vote him up there,” he pointed a finger at the swinging noose, “or I have no problem taking a life that I don't need to.” 

The Survivor swallowed a lump in his throat and held his ground. The Retributionist turned his head towards the trembling man whose hand he held. “You don't have to do this. Just put me up there, vote me guilty, and you can go free.” 

“No. We… We made a deal,” The Survivor looked around frantically. “I side with the town, w-with you-” 

“Hey, hey, I know, it’s alright,” The Ret cupped the Survivor’s face in one hand, wiping a tear off his cheek with his thumb. He laughed weakly, “In case you haven't noticed, there's no more town left to side with. I can't win, but you can.” 

“Hey!” The Godfather reached out and snatched up the Retributionist’s arm, tugging him away from the Survivor. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?” 

The Survivor didn’t take his eyes off him, terrified for the death of someone that, for once, was not himself. 

“Well,” the Godfather continued, “I vote against the Retributionist.” 

The Ret sighed and looked down in resignation as the Consigliere responded with “I also vote against the Retributionist.”

The two had dragged the Ret closer to the gallows, who was not even attempting to free himself. The Survivor did not get the chance to protest before the Retributionist was thrown onto the platform. He stood, far too calm for someone about to be dangling through the air. 

The Godfather stopped. “We do not have enough votes to hang you, unfortunately, for we need three.” He sighed in a sarcastic manner, turning towards the Survivor. 

The Survivor could not even look at the Godfather, he could only gaze at the man who stood next to the noose, who stared back at the Survivor with eyes that already seemed dead. 

“Well?” The Godfather scoffed. “Are you voting or not?” 

The Survivor opened his mouth to yell, to cry, to say anything to get the Retributionist, his Retributionist, off the stage and back in his arms, but instead he shut it, and only shook his head. “No.”

The Godfather’s eyes narrowed. “You… You aren't?” He spoke through his teeth in a low growl. “Listen, either you help us hang him right now, or-”

“Let him go,” the Retributionist spoke softly, his voice hoarse. His expression showed more disappointment than anything else. “Why are you making him do this? You can let him go, it would be easy. You don't even have to hang me today. Kill me tonight, you can wait until then. He doesn't have to go through this.” 

The Survivor couldn't bear to speak, the tears clouding his vision. He shook his head rapidly, silently pleading for mercy for the man about to hang.

The Godfather paused for a moment, almost surprised by the defiance that was shown. His shock subsided and a low laugh came from his throat, growing in volume. “I'm… I'm sorry,” he chuckled. “Do you… Do you know what my goal is, as the Godfather, as the leader of this damned crime ring?” 

He looked to the silent Survivor and shook his head in false pity, clicking his tongue. “No? Well,” he reached into his pocket. “It says quite clearly… ‘Kill anyone who will not submit to the Mafia.’” 

From his pocket, he pulled out a revolver and pointed it steadily at the Survivor’s forehead. The Retributionist’s scream could not quite drown out the gunshot. Clean fire, in and out, the Survivor was dead before he hit the ground. 

The Retributionist cried out in agony, but it wasn't for the rope that was thrown around his neck, for he would have wanted nothing more than to die in that moment. And so his wish was granted. 

The town was silent again, but was soon replaced with the laughter of the Mafia, claiming their victory over the town.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a while back so it's not as good as I remember but i still very much enjoyed writing it and town of salem gives way to some great fic prompts


End file.
